Where The Earth Is Rotting Away
by zeezee42
Summary: This year he didn't even bother bringing out a pen and paper, he had given up his writing.


**Where The Earth Is Rotting Away**  
By Zhidia  
A Yu Yu Hakusho fanfiction  
Disclaimer: I don't own the lyrics or anime.  
Notes: I'm very happy with this one, I like how it turned out. The title is the soon-to-be-released La'Cryma Christi album. The lyrics at the bottom are from "Shinjitsu no Hana" by Nightmare.

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Cold to the touch, as if frozen  
It fell into desolation, this wide earth  
The seasons just pass  
Yet spring will not come...

- "Shinjitsu no Hana" by Nightmare

Flower of Truth

-----

He was in the garden again. It was there that he felt most comfortable, surrounded by sweet fragrances and protected by a cover of swaying foliage. It was there where he wrote his poetry, and each time he went out to the garden the pen would take on a life of its own, scratching across the paper as if possessed. It was there where he felt the most alive and real, surrounded by so much life and vibrancy that at times he was overwhelmed with feeling. However, he hadn't written any poetry in a year, and yet, every spring he would come out and search for inspiration that wouldn't come. This year he didn't even bother bringing out a pen and paper, he had given up his writing. This year he just laid back on the lush grass, looking up to the sky and enjoyed the garden. It was spring, and all the flowers were in full bloom.

Almost all of them.

He turned his head sideways, and his gaze fell on his favorite flower's resting place. His precious white chrysanthemums. It was such a simple flower, and with one passing glance one might assume it was a daisy. He liked it because it looked simple, but like most flowers, would die easily if not taken care of. He was especially protective of these flowers because they held a memory for him, something he didn't want to forget.

_"Hey, dad, that's a pretty flower. Can we get that one?"_

_"Mm, sure. Which colour would you like?"_

_"White!" He wrinkled his nose. "Pink is for girls." He grabbed the flower off the stand, and looked at the label. "Chur-ris-an-the-mum."_

_"Almost. Chris-san-the-mum."_

_"Chrysanthemum?" he repeated slowly._

_"Mmhmm." His father smiled, and pointed towards the exit. "Kurama, the checkout is over there. Why don't you go buy it for us, okay?" He handed the seven-year-old some money._

_The child smiled and wrapped his arms around his father's leg. "Thank you, dad."_

Ever since that day, he had diligently taken care of the plant, and never ceased to be amazed at how beautiful such a simple blossom could be. He had taken care of them every year since then, making sure that he could preserve the flower until the next spring. Every winter before the frost came, he would trim the flowers and gently cover them with dirt, protecting the plants until the next spring, when he would uncover them and they would blossom. He had done this for ten years, preserving the memory in the flower each winter, when one new spring, something happened.

He figured something was wrong at first when he found no trace of the flower or any seeds. In a slight panic, he had dug a hole a foot deep searching for the flower, which had seemed to evaporate into the air. Finding nothing, he calmed down enough to go in the house and bring out the seeds he preserved, in case something like this ever happened. He planted the seeds in the hole, sprinkled a little water over them, and waited. He then knew something was wrong when he wrote no poetry, but his pen and paper still remained on the small table in the middle of the garden. A week later, nothing had happened. He made himself believe that the flower would grow soon, and waited one more week. Still, nothing appeared, and he found no inspiration to write. He felt his hopes sink a little more, and decided to dig up the seeds and see if he could grow them indoors. Maybe the earth was still too cold.

He experimented. He put one seed in a glass filled one inch with water. He put another one in a pot with dirt from the garden, and the last one in a pot with dirt that he added expensive fertilizer and nutrients to. He waited a week, and nothing grew. He did not leave the house, and spent his days watching TV and reading, but the flowers were always on his mind. Another week passed, and nothing grew, not even a little green sprout. He decided to wait one more day, and then he would admit to himself that the flowers were dead. He went to sleep that night silently praying for blossoms, with dreams plagued by white silk and burning paper.

He woke up with the sun, and his instinct kicked in. He immediately got out of bed and rushed downstairs. He went into the kitchen and as soon as his foot connected with the tile, he knew something was wrong. It then occurred to him, it just suddenly appeared in his brain so fast he felt nauseous, his other flowers were still outside. One thought replaced another, and he dashed by the forgotten seeds, and flung open the back door. It was just as he feared. He stood there, barefoot on the cold stone that had not yet been warmed by the sun, and took in the sight before him.

Leaves were bitten, chewed to shreds and the ones in the best condition were browning at the edges and full of small holes. The grass was uneven, bare in one spot and overgrown in the other. The neglected flowers, which were full and lush a month ago, had degenerated into rags and broken threads. Stems had fallen over and snapped, severing the life source from the blossom, which had then withered away gently. His beloved rosebush had been abandoned for memories that were deemed more precious.

And he stood there, rooted to the ground, and torn between his fading oasis and the decaying seeds of the past.

Even now the ancient feelings, cannot be changed  
Still in the heart of myself do exist


End file.
